


Hands All Over

by LaughingSenselessly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSenselessly/pseuds/LaughingSenselessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin had a thing for hands. It was to be expected, really; she was an artist, respected they were tools and at the same time models in themselves, complicated bits of machinery that were a challenge to be sketched into masterpieces. So yeah, she’d always had a thing for hands.</p><p>But Bellamy Blake’s hands didn’t make her want to break out the pens and paper. Right now they were making her want to bang her head against the wall in an effort to forget them. They were a fucking curse.</p><p>-x-</p><p>Or, the one where Clarke thirsts over Bellamy's hands like we all shamelessly do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands All Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ocslayviablake](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ocslayviablake).



> This is for the lovely [ocslayviablake ](http://www.ocslayviablake.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr for her birthday; she's amazing and, like the rest of us, is obsessed with Bellamy's gorgeous hands. Enjoy! ;D

Clarke Griffin had a thing for hands. It was to be expected, really; she was an artist, respected they were tools and at the same time models in themselves, complicated bits of machinery that were a challenge to be sketched into masterpieces. So yeah, she’d always had a thing for hands.

But Bellamy Blake’s hands didn’t make her want to break out the pens and paper. Right now they were making her want to  _bang her head against the wall_ in an effort to forget them. They were a fucking curse.

Actually it was a curse that she’d noticed them at all, really- well, obviously she’d always known the man  _had_  hands, but- this morning he had her positively mesmerized.

It all started when she’d ducked out of her quarters and was unprepared for the hand that landed on her shoulder. She’d turned and stared at the hand for a full second- wow,  _nice,_ large palms and long fingers, who did they belong to- before she heard someone clearing his throat and a few synapses fired in her brain and she looked up and they belonged to none other than the infuriating Bellamy Blake. And he was staring at her, one eyebrow quirked up in amusement.

“Sleep well?” he asked, voice deep and rough and rubbing Clarke just the wrong way and yet also the right way. “Or still dreaming?”

She snapped out of it, finally, and brushed his hand off of her shoulder brusquely. “A nightmare, obviously,” she replied, and he barked out a laugh at that. “What’s going on?”

His brow furrowed. “We’ve got three with a fever,” he said, and Clarke nodded as he spoke, already trying to sort through possible causes, “one’s throwing up, the other’s already starting to look a little green, and the last one we found passed out so no idea how he’s feeling.”

He sounded a little exasperated, as if this were a personal inconvenience, and she nearly chuckled. “My mother?”

“She’s busy with the Council.”

She chewed her lip. “Alright, let me have a look at them.”

“That was sort of the idea.” he grinned, and then he had the  _audacity_  to lift a hand and run it through his hair, and Clarke was helpless to the urge to follow the way that hand tugged at his own messy curls, wondering suddenly how it would feel if it were tugging at her own…

No.

“Lead the way,” she said quickly, and thankfully he didn’t seem to have noticed, because he shrugged and stalked off, not even bothering to look behind to see if she followed.

-x-

The second time was even worse because she’d been spending about ten minutes thinking about it. Seriously, how had she never noticed his  _hands_? They were kind of an important part of his anatomy. The visible part of it, anyway. Ahem.

She was walking through camp and saw him with a group of younger boys and a few girls, showing them how to shoot.

It wasn’t an uncommon event; Bellamy was well-known in the camp and everyone knew he was a sharp shooter. And as for training younger people, he could also be exceedingly gentle when he wanted to be, a trait likely acquired while raising his sister.

(None of these facts helped squash Clarke’s growing attraction.)

Currently, he was aiming that rifle at a nearby tree, eyes squinting slightly at the target. She saw his knuckles tighten, the fingers flex on the trigger, before he breathed deeply and methodically and fired the shot.

It hit the bullseye. As expected.

He didn’t seem to react to his victory, simply blinking and nodding to himself gruffly, but Clarke saw the way his long fingers drummed a happy pattern on the rifle’s metal.

Then he must have spotted her, because his gaze lifted from the target and met hers, and she felt a strange whooping sensation in her stomach when their eyes connected.

She turned around and fled.

-x-

She thought she’d escaped him for the day, sitting in the medical bay with not much to do but roll bandages, when he ducked through the entrance- she only glanced at him quickly- and then, to her dismay, sat down next to her.

He didn’t say anything for a long minute, just sat there, and Clarke was feeling jumpy so she snapped, “What do you want?”

He blinked at her a few times, taken aback, a flash of hurt flying over his face but it was so fleeting she wasn’t even sure it had been there in the first place. It suddenly occurred to her that he’d been working all day. Maybe he’d just wanted to rest his feet. Maybe he just wanted to sit with her. They’d always enjoyed each other’s company in the past.

She immediately felt bad.

“Nothing,” he was saying, already unfolding his long frame and making to clamber back to his feet, “Just checking in, that’s all-”

“Sit.”

He paused.

She scrambled for an excuse. “These bandages aren’t going to roll themselves. You could help, you know.” She waved a finished one at him. “Unless you’re too busy having threesomes in your tent.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you.” Contrary to embarrassment, he sounded amused.

“Nope,” Clarke replied, smacking the “p” sound off her lips. The distraction worked, and he sat down again.

So they set to work again, and this time he was un-shouldering his bulky rifle and helping her. Except, after a few minutes she realized this was worse, and maybe she should have just let him leave.

It was just… God, his  _hands_. The way he draped the bandage carefully around and then with the dextrous fingers of his other hand slowly wrapped the roll. It was kind of entrancing. And now that she was staring at them unabashedly, she was noticing the little veins that ran from the backs of his hands and disappeared into his jacket and she found herself wondering where they led to…

She shot up suddenly, the bandages that had been resting on her lap bouncing slightly off the cloth ground. “I,” she said, harried as he looked up, “forgot, Kane wanted to see me about something.”

She didn’t wait- she turned for the entrance, she needed a breather immediately or she was going to do something very stupid, such as kiss him, that she had refrained from doing for quite a long time and she really didn’t want to break that perfect record. 

She was almost in the clear when she felt a hand close around her wrist. She whipped around; he was standing too, a slightly concerned expression on his face. His grip on her was firm yet gentle. “Everything okay?” he asked gruffly.

She almost answered gracefully. Almost. Then she made the mistake of looking down and seeing that his fingers and thumb overlapped around her wrist, and the heat coming from them was absolutely searing.

And maybe she could have handled seeing  _that_ , but then his thumb quite suddenly was rubbing soft circles into the skin on the inside of her wrist, sending tingles ricocheting throughout her entire body. “Should I come with you?” he was asking, and Clarke snapped out of it.

“No,” she very nearly shouted, and she was hurrying away before he could do anything else.

-x-

It was evening when she saw him again.

He wasn’t patrolling with the guard; it seemed he had the night off. But, in true Bellamy Blake fashion, he had found something else to work on, tending to the camp fire.

The flames were raising quite a bit of heat- Clarke could see the way the air around it wavered- and he’d taken off his jacket, revealing a thin blue tee that left not a lot to the imagination. His dark curls were damp, a few plastered to his forehead; brown skin gleamed from the light and eyes focussed on the task in front of him, prodding at the fire with a large stick. Simply put he looked delicious. Clarke could see she wasn’t the only one to think so; quite a gaggle of women (and a few men) were eyeing him. She knew he didn’t notice; he was speaking to a few of the guards as he worked, distracted. Ironic really, considering how much he’d enjoyed attention in the earlier days of the 100′s landing.

Clarke felt an irrational surge of jealousy as the others watched. Which didn’t make any sense. Yes, they were partners, leaders of the younger people of the Ark and respected by the elder ones; people who had done battle together and led together and quite by default belonged to each other in a sense, in the way that they fought and strategized; they were just a good team, period.

But not  _that_  way. He wasn’t hers, in that way. She wasn’t supposed to feel this way about him. She wasn’t supposed to want to climb her co-leader like a tree.

And yet, she did.

She decided maybe today was just one of those days; and hopefully tomorrow morning she would wake up and not be such a horn dog. She was just about to go and turn in for the evening when his arm came up and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, forearm flexing at the motion.

That was it. Clarke stopped in her tracks and resumed in a different direction than intended.

Bellamy didn’t look up as she approached, only glancing at her through the side of his vision when she came to a stop in front of him.

“Bellamy.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, silent. She wondered belatedly if he was angry at her for the way she’d acted earlier. Well, too late to back out now.

Ignoring the curious looks of the guards around them, she folded her arms. “I need to talk to you.”

“So talk.” He prodded at the fire again; her eyes followed those veins she’d discovered in his hand and how they travelled up his sinewy forearms.

“In private,” she persisted, hating the connotation those words usually brought up amongst the less mature of the group, except this time they were actually kind of right, because she was burning up inside in a way that would make the campfire seem incompetent.

Abruptly, as if he were waiting for that, he handed off the stick to one of the other guards and straightened to his full height. His cool gaze was indecipherable. 

“Lead the way,” he echoed at her from earlier that morning. She did, hardly even noticing where she was leading him, goddamnit it she just needed him alone.

He followed her back to her own quarters.

And when she shut the door behind them, he finally dropped his cool gaze and revealed a harder glare underneath. “What’s going on with you today?” He asked, folding his arms. That didn’t help matters; at all.

She didn’t really know where she was going with this; she’d let impulse take control and was regretting it more deeply by the second. She wasn’t some master seductress; she was left floundering. But really how  _was_  she supposed to break it to her close confidante of many years that she wanted to jump his bones?

When she stayed silent, he sighed in frustration. “Should have known better than to expect a straight answer from you.”

This got her attention. “What’s  _that_  supposed to mean?” She asked, folding her arms, mirroring him.

His tone was just this side of irritated as he replied bluntly. “Lately whenever I try to have a simple goddamn conversation with you, you look like you’re thinking about something else.”

She chewed her lip. Well, he was right about one thing.

He was already turning for the door. “But I get it. I’m not worth your time unless it’s about the latest Grounder attack.” Was it her or did he sound a little hurt under the anger? He grabbed the doorknob, knuckles tightening around it before adding bitingly, “I’ll see you around,  _Princess_.”

He didn’t get a chance to open the door because he’d been wrenched around and Clarke was kissing him.

Uncharacteristically, he floundered for a small second, pulling away to say with confusion, “Clarke-”

She was already trying to tug him back to her. “Are you this dense,” she hissed, because she’d had it with his blissful ignorance over the fact that yes, he  _was_  worth her time and she just wanted a little bit of his.

Their lips clashed in a second sloppy kiss before he pulled away, eyes wide under his dark fringe of curls. “Are you drunk?” he asked, hoarsely.

She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like it?”

And then she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down so that they were abruptly nose to nose. “You’ve been driving me absolutely insane all day,” she snarled, “you and your stupid fucking hands.”

“My hands,” he repeated, and slowly, it was like the realization was dawning on him. She watched the change happen in his eyes.

They went from wide and confused to all at once hooded and very very dark, and then he slowly and deliberately placed his hands on her waist, the fingers nearly spanning her entire back. The heat of him thrumming against her skin made her shiver.

His thumbs stroked teasingly at her skin, touching at the edge of her shirt. “You like my hands, Princess?” His voice was suddenly a good octave lower.

She was suddenly incapable of speech, so all she did was nod.

“And you like it when I call you Princess.” It was stated as fact, not framed as a question, because goddamnit he  _knew_ what he was doing to her. He didn’t do it very often- call her Princess- anymore but Clarke wasn’t even interesting in hiding the fact that it sort of turned her on when he did. As if to punctuate his point, he moved forward and lazily captured her bottom lip between his front teeth, worrying it gently for a moment before moving down to her throat.

“Kiss me,” she demanded even as she arched her neck into his touch, voice near shaking.

His answering smirk was wide. “Anything the princess wants.”

(He did.)

(And after that she finally put his hands to good use.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [arrowcave ](http://www.arrowcave.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Dropping a comment below will make my day! Thanks for reading and I really hope you enjoyed. xoxo

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hands All Over: Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7969882) by [Wellamyblake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wellamyblake/pseuds/Wellamyblake)




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